


Blood and Whiskey

by starryeyes1312



Category: High Noon Over Camelot - The Mechanisms (Album), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Getting Together, Multi, Poly Relationship, Pre-Canon, sexy gun duels, sexy sky burials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27657233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starryeyes1312/pseuds/starryeyes1312
Summary: Arthur meets Guinevere. Together, they share food, secrets and alcohol.
Relationships: Arthur/Guinevere/Lancelot (High Noon Over Camelot)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My friend said they'd give me their firstborn if I wrote a Pendragons fluff fic. Was just gonna be a few hundred words, but it turned into this. Part 2 will be coming soon (now with more bisexuality!)

Arthur’s legs burned. No, his whole body burned. He had been walking alone for days across the rusty hills, the dust creeping into his throat and lungs. His arms ached from carrying his pack and his fingers hurt from clutching his gun, Caliburn, at the ready. Finally giving in, he stopped to take a rest. He sat down on a hunk of twisted metal that the sun had scorched with heat.

He checked his supplies. He’d have to restock on water soon, but he had enough food. His bottle of whiskey was down to a few swigs. He was saving it for a special night, the kind where there’s a cool breeze and the whirring of the machinery is reduced to barely a hum.

He carefully opened a can of beans, the metal top falling to the ground. He was about to have a spoonful before he heard a voice from behind him.

“Can I get some of that?” The voice was hoarse with dehydration yet still beautiful and almost lyrical under the weariness. Arthur looked behind him. A woman sat, leaning against a steel pylon. Her skin was brown, the color of leather, the color of the holster on Arthur’s belt that held his trusty gun. Her hair, the color of night, was braided back underneath a dust-stained hat.

“Sure.” He held out another can of beans. She opened it with one fluid motion and began devouring it, barely stopping to breathe. He noticed her leg, broken and bleeding and wrapped in a dirty, fraying bandage. No wonder she hadn’t been able to get her own food.

“You got a name?” she paused to ask.

Arthur was silent for a wary moment. He didn’t usually give out his name to strangers. But he didn’t think she could hurt him in this state. “Arthur Pendragon.”

“I’m Guinevere. Or Gwen for short,” she said.

“Don’t you have a family name-” he started to say, but stopped when he saw the expression on Guinevere’s face harden.

“Look, I don’t need people prying. I need to get a move on.”

“Good luck with that. I don’t know what happened to your leg, but it looks bad,” he said, glancing down at the wound. “I would take you with me but- no. I travel light.”

She nodded in solemn understanding and continued cleaning out the last of the brown mush. He stayed with her until she finished. The sun started to dim and his aches and pains felt like they were fading with the light. It was almost tranquil, and they sat there together for a minute.

But then, all of a sudden, her eyes opened wide and flicked around. “They’re here,” she muttered. Before Arthur could say anything, a group of people, half a dozen maybe, descended on the pair from all sides. They were clad in cloaks and hoods the color of the rusted, scorched landscape. Their weapons were mismatched, some with pistols, a few with knives, one with a mean-looking whip.

One wrestled Arthur to the ground, a bent dagger pressed against his neck. Arthur’s heart throbbed and breathing quickened as he desperately tried to reach Caliburn.

Then, a shot rang out and the man’s grip slacked, a gaping hole in his forehead. Two more shots and two more bodies on the ground. Arthur untangled himself from his captor. Gwen’s pistol was raised and smoking. Her face was not angry; it was hard and determined. Without a word, they took their places beside each other. She leaned on him for support, her leg still injured but her gun quick and certain.

The cloaked people were desperate and dived for every opportunity. Their clothes could not hide their malnourished forms. The next time one of them tried to grapple Arthur, he was ready. His hands grabbed her wrists right before her knife could pierce his chest. He held her in an iron grip before smashing her head with the handle of his gun. She fell to the floor loudly, bright crimson pooling around her.

Arthur shot another, the limp body draping across the pylon. Just one left; he was thin and looked barely old enough to be called a man. His eyes were wide with fear and in a moment, he was off running into the distance. Gwen raised her pistol, but Arthur nudged her arm down.

One by one, Arthur dragged the bodies onto a high, rusty ridge. He wiped the sweat from his brow. The vultures would be there soon, and they would strip them of their broken, battered flesh. Then there would be nothing but clean, beautiful bones and then those would be enveloped by the sand. No matter what the group had done, he would be respectful to what remained of them.

And then it was just Arthur and Guinevere. It had turned to night, and the cool air was refreshing and gentle. He dug around in his pack for some bandages that had not been soiled by the pervasive dust and dirt. She winced as he peeled off the blood-soaked cloth that had been hastily wrapped around her leg. But she did not protest. He was not an expert by any means, but he’d seen his fair share of injuries and he knew how to patch them up with the materials he had. When he finished, she sighed in relief.

“It was raiders,” she forced out, like she’d been trying to say it for a while. “Like those, but more of them. Killed my family. Took everything we had and almost killed me. Been trying to get away from them.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, and he knew it wasn’t enough.

Guinevere looked him up and down. “What about you? Where are you going?”

No one had asked him this before, and he stumbled over his words. “I- I don’t know. Somewhere better- somewhere other than here. I’ve seen it in my dreams, but they slip away from me when I try to remember.”

“I don’t think there’s anywhere other than here,” Gwen said.

“I’m not sure if there is, but I feel like I have to try.” He stared into the distance, taking in the bleak landscape. His head fell onto her shoulder. She was warm, but not like the blistering sun or the burning sands. She was warm like a cup of coffee or a soft blanket. Her arm wrapped around him tenderly and they leaned into each other.

For the first time in a while, Arthur felt safe. He broke the silence carefully. “I have some whiskey, you want some?” Gwen nodded, a faint smile on her face. He reached into his pack and pulled out the bottle. Perhaps it once had words on it, but they’d long faded. He took a sip of the amber liquid, passing it through his cracked lips. It was harsh and strong, yet delicious and comforting. He handed it to Gwen and she took a drink as well.

“That’s good stuff,” she said, savoring the taste.

They spent the next couple of minutes passing the bottle back and forth until the last drops were gone. The fuzz of intoxication set in and the two held each other closer, laying on the ground. Gwen fell asleep first, head nestled into Arthur’s neck, arm still wrapped protectively around his waist. Her chest moved up and down, breathing slowly and serenely. He watched her for a bit before slipping into unconsciousness.

That night, his dreams were fragmented and filled with castles, crowns and swords. He did not understand them, and they were gone by the time he awoke.

For the next few weeks, they travelled by each other’s side. They hardly talked, but they spoke in a million other ways. Arthur put together a makeshift crutch for Gwen. She gave him extra bullets from her pouch. They shared his canteen of water. She watched over him while he took a rest.

Every little action was a way to say “I love you” and when Arthur finally said it aloud, in the cool dark of night, it was a surprise to neither.


	2. Blood and Whiskey, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Gwen meet Lancelot in rather unusual circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy the second and last part of this story! Also, let this be a reminder to drink some water

The signpost was bent and rusted over, but Arthur could make out the words: “Township of Benoic”. He had not wanted to stop at a town, but their water was running dangerously low. His thirst was persistent and burning, and water stolen off of raiders or from the occasional puddle was no longer enough. It was not long before he realized that Benoic was barely a town; it could be better described as a few dozen shacks piled precariously on a hill. 

He and Gwen entered the makeshift general store. Her leg had healed and she no longer needed to lean against him for support. But they were always by each others’ sides, their shoulders pressed together, ready to draw their guns to protect their partner. 

“Two gallons of water, please,” Arthur said to the shopkeeper. They were stooped with age and their thin, gray hair fell over their dark eyes. Their wrinkles showed how long they had lived, and Arthur admired their ability to survive in these unforgiving wastes. 

“Nope. No water,” they croaked in a hoarse voice. 

“Look, we have plenty to trade for-”

“What did I say? No one’s been able to get any water for days. I barely got enough for my family,” Their tone was creeping towards anger. “No water.” 

“Uh, why haven’t you been able to get any?” Gwen asked cautiously. 

The shopkeep leaned forward, arms crossed. “All I know is that whenever someone tries to go down to the lake, they don’t come back. My friend says it’s a beast, my husband says it’s a man, my daughter says it’s probably just bad luck. I don’t know which, but I ain’t testing fate.” 

Arthur and Gwen shared a fearful glance. Then, the fear faded into resolve. “Where’s the lake?” he said.

“Y’all are damn stupid if you want to go there. I’ve been on this godforsaken land for longer than anyone can keep track of, and the only way to stay alive is to know when to back down and go home.” 

Arthur knew the shopkeep was right, but he had never been one to concede because of danger. He thought it would probably lead to his death eventually, but it was better than not trying to change anything. The best he could do was make sure he’d be remembered and let the vultures take care of his remains. Maybe he’d never grow wrinkles and his hair would never whiten, but at least his bones would return to the sand where they came from. And maybe if he took enough risks, he’d find the place from his dreams before then. 

“We don’t have a home. Tell us where the lake is,” Guinevere instructed, interrupting his train of thought. Her hand was moving over her pistol holster. A threat, not an intention. 

The shopkeep sighed. “Half a mile widdershins, past the big pylon with the broken bottom rung,” they said. “Good luck. You’ll need it.” 

Arthur and his love nodded to each other and set off. As he walked, his legs and chest burned and hot sand washed into his boots. He gulped down the last of his canteen; it did little to quench his dry, dusty throat. But his determination and Gwen’s warmth helped ease the pain, thirst and fear. 

They made no effort to conceal their heavy footsteps and eventually, they reached the lake. Bodies were scattered around, each with a hole neatly between their eyes, blood flowing across the metal into the water. An anxious pit formed in Arthur’s stomach and for a moment, he considered running back. But then, a man called out.

“Who’s there?” His voice was forceful and angry. He was crouching among the bodies, rifle raised. His dark cloak was wrapped around him like a blanket, and his eyes betrayed fear. 

“We need to get water from the lake,” Arthur said, aware of his shaking voice.

“You’re not getting any goddamn closer,” he warned. 

“Why are you even here?” Gwen asked, hand creeping towards her gun. 

“Go away.”

“We need water. The whole town needs water,” Arthur said. “It’s two against one. You’d get lost if you knew what was good for you.” 

“All of those corpses say different. But if you want to try and take me away from my mothe-” 

“Your mother?” Guinevere said quietly. 

He looked shaken. “I- let’s get this over with. We’ll make it a fair fight. A duel. You can choose who takes me on.” 

“I’ll do it,” she responded immediately.

“Gwen-” Arthur said.

“I can draw faster than anyone I’ve met. I can do this.” He nodded. It was her choice. Her fate. 

The two lined up, their backs pressed together. Distantly, Benoic was striking high noon. They took a step away from each other. The scorching sun lit up their conflicted faces. Another step. The machinery hummed in anticipation. A third step. Guinevere took her gun from her belt. A fourth. The man’s hands trembled around the wooden handle of his rifle. A fifth. The breeze ruffled her long braid. A sixth. Their boots clunked against the metal. A seventh. Guinevere’s knuckles were white from gripping her pistol. An eighth. A single tear ran down his face. A ninth. It dropped onto the ground silently. 

A tenth. They both turned around, eyes locked on each other. Gwen’s finger hovered over her trigger, then her hand slacked and the pistol fell to the ground. His rifle followed suit, his eyes shining with tears. 

“What’s your name?” she asked softly, approaching him.

“Lancelot. I used to be Lancelot du Lac but-” His voice shook and he wiped his eyes, but seemed determined to continue speaking. “My mother drowned. I-I have to protect her. What’s left of her.”

Gwen nodded. “Look, we’ve all lost people. I know how it feels, especially. We need to stick together.” She grasped Arthur’s hand. Her grip was safe, steady and sure. “I’m Guinevere, and this is Arthur.” 

Lancelot’s eyes met hers then flicked to his, searching for a sign that it was some sort of trick. Finding none, he continued. “I should have stuck with my mother. She took me in, she raised me, and I couldn’t save her.” The tears were flowing freely now, pouring down his face like the tide.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Gwen said. 

Arthur took his callused hand gently, carefully. He waited until the sobbing had subsided to a slow drip. “We can give her a proper burial. Not like this.”   
Lancelot nodded as Gwen brushed the last of the tears from his cheeks. “Look, you don’t have to,” he said. “She’s at the bottom of the lake and-”

“No, I’ll get her,” Arthur said firmly. He took off his hat and jacket and jumped into the water. It was like a whole different world. The whirring of the engines faded. Everything was tinted greenish-blue and his hair flowed around him like a swirling cloud. He dived down against the unyielding water. Bits of iron or steel, old tires, buckets, broken knives and other debris lined the bottom. He spotted Lancelot’s mother among all of it, bloated and face-down. He took hold of her, gripping her waist and propelling himself upwards with his legs. His arms ached and his chest burned. It was slow, arduous going and he was running out of air. He desperately flailed his legs, trying to reach the surface. He could see the light ahead of him, so close. His head peeked above the surface and his lips gasped for air before her weight sent him beneath again. 

Then, a steady hand grasping his and dragging him out. Soon, he collapsed onto land, intertwined with the lifeless body. Lancelot was hovering above him with concern, gratefulness and love written simultaneously across his face. With another tug, he pulled Arthur up. He coughed up the water and embraced Lancelot.  
“You’re soaking wet,” commented Lance. It might have been intended as a reproach, but it came out relieved and affectionate.

Gwen handed Arthur his hat and jacket and placed a gentle kiss on both of their foreheads. “Let’s give your mother the rest she deserves,” she said. The three took hold of the body and hoisted it towards the nearest peak.

“Her name was Nynian du Lac. She adopted me as a baby, and she loved me with all her heart,” Lancelot said. As they walked, he told the two about her. She had taught him how to shoot, she had forgiven him when he broke her favorite watch, she had told him legends of great gunslingers and she had watched him grow from a moody, clingy baby to a strong man. He made no attempt to stop the flow of salty water from his eyes this time. 

When they reached the peak of the dune, they placed her body down gently. The dust that caked almost everyone’s skin had been washed from hers. Her eyes were closed and her gray-streaked hair was spread around her head. 

As they walked away, Arthur noticed that a vulture had already started pecking at the flesh and he smiled a little. 

When they reached the lake, each filled their bottles with water and dropped a purifying tablet into it. Their trek towards Benoic felt shorter this time. It wasn’t long before they reached the signpost again. Arthur led them to the rundown general store, the door creaking as he entered.

“Just here to let you know you can go back to the lake again,” he said to the shopkeep, gesturing to the full canteen on his waist.

“Damn, I guess I lost the bet with my husband,” they said as the three walked in, a crooked grin across their lined face. “Still, it’s nice to see you back.” 

Guinevere smiled as well. “Do you think we can get some whiskey? It’s been a long day.” 

“For y’all, it’s on the house.” The shopkeep dug around behind the counter and pulled out a full bottle, taking a swig before passing it to them.

The three each took a few drinks before Arthur tucked it away in his pack for another day. He had felt content with Gwen, but with Lance as well, he felt… complete. His hands held both of theirs, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Tonight, they’d rent out a room together and fall asleep in each other's arms. Tomorrow, they’d be trekking across the wastes again, future uncertain.


End file.
